Shred of Blue
by Eberhardt
Summary: Jon Snow had dreamed of many things as a boy, but now he was nearly a man grown. So then, why does he dream of another life, and of another world so different yet so similar to his own? All he knows is that taking The Black no longer seems quite so appealing.
1. A Singular Shred of Blue

_In Death, Sacrifice._

_How many times had he heard those words? How many times had he said them to himself? An oath? A promise?_

_...How long had he been down here? In these large, winding tunnels and caverns, sat beneath the surface of the world? Three years? Four? Had it been Five or more? With no sun to tell him the passing of the days, the man was forced to simply traverse deeper and deeper, immersed in darkness. So far into the Deep Roads, that even the masonry and stonework of the Dwarves had become sparse and few and far between._

_All in pursuit of that damnable song that grew stronger and stronger as time passed._

_"Come down here to die, and these bastards can't even give me that," The man said with a sigh, setting himself back against a carven wall. A groan on his lips as blood and grime smeared the wall as he let himself slip down on it and into a sitting position. Flickers of flame and light danced through the large cavern, illuminating the numerous corpses and bodies scattered throughout._

_With an exertion of will, he spared a few last drops of power to set a particular pile of dead to the flame._

_Perhaps he shouldn't have been surprised. Even now, surrounded by nothing but death and rot, the man covered in blood and viscera, he stood tall and strong. But was that so surprising?_

_What was a few hundred darkspawn to a man who had slain thousands of them? To one who had faced down an Archdemon and come out the stronger?_

_"Heh," He gave a smirk as his head laid back upon the hard stone of the wall, "Could really go for a bit of Zevran or Alistair's wit right now." Of course that ponce of a blonde had better things to do then come and kill a few thousand darkspawn with his old buddy. You know. Things like keeping a kingdom together in the wake of a major war between zealous bigots and powerdrunk apostates who got a taste of freedom and decided, you know, why **not** make deals with demons and run amok like psychotic children?_

_Zevran, though, he really had no excuse! Pah, like he had the gold to spend on the man's exorbitant prices! 'Friends Discount' his magical ass!_

_"Then again, things weren't much better topside, last I checked." He said, shifting a bit in the armor he wore, gaze turning upwards. That Inquisitor had done good work, but things had only gotten worse with that Elven Mage. The search hadn't been going well._

_Breathing out, he felt a ripple of energy on his skin, the wisps of green at the edge of the cavern growing larger._

_"Guess it had to end sometime, huh?" He said to one of the bodies currently caught aflame, "Still, if the world was gonna end, you'd think one of you damn bastards would put up a better fight, yeah?"_

_Slowly, as the flames he had spread began to grow hotter and hotter, their color turning a whitish green that billowed and burned. Tearing at reality as The Fade began to unravel at the seams._

_"And here I'd been, wanting my death to mean something." The man said as green took up all around him, "Maybe next time, then."_

_Then, there was nothing. _

When Jon woke up, it was with a severe sense of disorientation.

The first thing he did, after stumbling out of the bed and nearly tripping himself, was reach out for his clothes set on a chair to the side. Of course, there was a good few feet between his hand and the chair, and despite some half asleep expectations, the clothes did not leap to his hand. Blinking in confusion, he shook his head, as if trying to clear the fog from his mind.

"What?" he asked looking at his hand, and then at the clothes. For a moment, he could have sworn the fabrics should have leaped towards his hand.

Giving another few blinks, his shoulders sagged and he once more shook his head.

"Just dreams, Jon," He told himself, dismissing the thoughts as he grabbed the clothes and began to change. Muddled thoughts brought about by a lack of wakefulness.

Still, as he shuffled on the tunic that had been laid out for him, he could not quite helpt the sense of wrongness that stayed with him. The cool stones of Winterfell beneath his feet seeming much too close, the way his arms would look much too short when seen out of the corner of his eye. He felt incredibly out of balance, as if he was in a body not his own.

"Jon! There you are!" A voice called from the door to his room, and Jon turned to see the face of his grinning half-brother. "Don't tell me you're just getting out of bed?! It's nearly time for our daily thrashing by Ser Rodrik!"

"You mean _your_ daily thrashing," Jon felt a small smile tug at the corners of his lips at the sight of Robb, dressed for practice, at his door, "If I recall correctly, only one of us had our faces pressed into the dirt of the courtyard last time."

"Only because you left me to face him alone!" Robb shot back with an easy grin as Jon finished slipping on the rest of his clothes. Clapping a hand on Jon's shoulder he gave a laugh, "But this time, you're not getting out of it so easily!"

"I liked to think of it as a strategic retreat," Jon grinned, feeling more at ease than he had since he'd woken up. As they passed through the halls of Winterfell and towards the practice yard, however, he did have to admit Robb may have had a point. Had he really slept so long? It was nearly noon!

"Strategic retreat?! You abandoned me!" Robb said with good cheer.

"But I didn't end up kissing the dirt and that's what matters."

"Hah! Someone's in a snarky mood this morning!" Robb said with a grin as they arrived.

"Oh? Has the dour Bastard of Winterfell finally found his sense of humour?" A snide and derisive voice called as they stepped into the practice yard, and Jon began to frown. There, dressed in training pads but with live steel in his hands was an older boy, a smirk on his face.

"Greyjoy." Jon said curtly, his good mood now thoroughly soured.

"And as quick as it comes, it goes!" Theon taunted as he sheathed his sword. "Really now, must you always be so frigid as your namesake? I pity the poor girl to first touch you, Snow, you're liable to freeze her nethers shut!" He mocked.

"Unlike _some_ I refrain from whoring." Jon said tersely, feeling his hackles raised at the sensitive subject. Of course, that was half the reason the Greyjoy always took his shots at such things. There was naught a day went by that Jon was reminded of his bastard status, and Theon took no small joy in constantly rubbing it in his face.

Rolling his eyes, Robb shoved at the both of them, saying, "Oh come off it already, you two!" He strolled into the practice yard, "It's too nice out to have you two going at eachother's throats again!"

"Aye," an older and more grizzled voice called out, "If you've got time to waste on pointless jabs at one another's expense, you have time to practice! Greyjoy, you might be using live steel now, but don't think I won't take it away if you can't handle it!" Rodrik Cassel bit out, glaring at a cowed Theon, before turning his eyes on Jon, "And about time you joined us, Snow. Get in the yard and start practicing the forms I showed you! We'll have a practice match after!" He said, and Jon scurried to do just that.

Joining Robb, he began by going through the standard exercises and motions Rodrik had shown them before, and that Jon had done hundreds of times before. They came easily enough, Jon preferring, ironically, a hand and a half sword when he fought. A bastard sword for the bastard. He was a decent enough hand with it, even above average Rodrik had told him once.

When they were younger, Robb and Jon had had enjoyed playing games and fancying themselves the next Aemon the Dragonknight or Cregan Stark. Even now, part of him still harbored those childish fantasies despite knowing how unlikely they were. He was a deft hand at it, sure, but that was all. Robb tended to beat him on the practice yard, the other boy large and muscular where Jon was lean and quick.

His half brother used a greatsword, like the ancestral blade of the Stark's, Ice. Dealing with Robb's sheer strength, backed up by his speed, was quite difficult.

That didn't mean he wasn't going to try his best, however.

When they were finished warming up, Jon took up one side of the yard while his half brother took up the other. Like Jon expected, Robb held a blunted greatsword, a practice blade much like his own. Still, he kept his shield close to his chest as they began to circle one another. Accidents weren't unheard of, even with dull blades.

"Ready to take your beating, Jon?" Robb asked, taunting with good cheer as he took up a ready stance.

"If I recall correctly, the last time we face off, you ended up yelding," Jon shot back, leaning on his haunches and ready to move at a moment's notice. Despite the greater weight of Robb's blade, he was quick with it and if Jon got caught up in his pace, he wouldn't be able to hold him off. His best bet was to avoid as many strikes from Robb as he could, or else he'd just get worn down.

Robb flushed at the reminder. "Only because I tripped on that damn rock!"

"Right. What did Dacey call it again? 'A tumble to make a mummer proud?'" Jon said with a grin at the memory. Robb had tripped on a rock, and if that hadn't been bad enough, he'd done so by tumbling head over heels and falling flat before Dacey Mormont. Just as he'd thought, his half-brother's flush grew even more as he brought the older girl up.

It was no secret Robb had a small fancy for her. Not that Jon blamed him. Dacey was a far cry from a southern princess, being just as wild and free as her mother. But she was athletic, and fierce and none of that detracted from her beauty.

Jon had a small fancy for her as well, after all. Though unlike Robb, he knew that would never go anywhere. Dacey was the heir of House Mormont, one of House Stark's foremost bannermen, and Jon…

He was a Bastard.

Unlike him, Robb actually had a chance with Dacey, as long as there was no other need for Robb to wed someone for some other political favor or alliance.

"If you weren't before, you're definitely paying for bringing that up now," Robb said seriously, and lunged, the tip of his blade slicing through the air. A basic lunge, but perfectly executed that had Jon scrambling to divert.

On the backfoot, Jon was exactly where he didn't want to be. He could feel his heels digging into the ground, the crunch of dirt and rock beneath his feet giving way as he twisted and turned to the side. Pushing Robb's blade to the side with his own, Jon hefted and forced himself to step forward, regaining his footing as he slashed upwards. Careful to keep his shield up to cover his openings as he turned his parry into a riposte.

That was the downside for using a greatsword. If you weren't careful and quick enough, any mistake could leave an opening. They were great offensively, the power packed behind them usually enough to overwhelm and they could be deceptively quick. But Jon had fought Robb enough to have a decent handle on fighting against them.

Of course, it wouldn't be that easy, as Robb swung up and used his greater strength to force Jon back, their blades clanging against one another with a resounding clash.

From there, the spar started in earnest.

Most fights were over quickly. Unless two opponents were incredibly skilled and masterful swordsmen in their own right, it usually only took a few moves for someone to slip up and then have their opponent take them out. However, most people weren't Jon and Robb, who had been sparring against eachother since they were boys. They knew one another's styles inside and out, every little quirk and habit they tried and failed to keep in check.

So it went. Robb would strike with force and power, and Jon would either deflect or dodge altogether. Rare were the times he'd outright use his shield to block, such moves only serving to make him stagger and let Robb press his attack.

In return, Jon was nimbler and for every strike Robb made, Jon echoed it with quickness and agility. Taking advantage of the openings in Robb's guard every time he attacked, darting in to strike at the other boy. Already he'd managed to land a couple minor hits on the arms, though that would do him little good.

"You might be quick, Jon, but you can't keep this up forever!" Robb shouted with a grin, swiping in from Jon's unshielded side. Unwilling to block, and unable to deflect from such an angle, he was left with no choice but to hop back. That proved to be exactly what Robb wanted, however, as Robb was already pressing forward and swinging up in a lunge into the opening Jon had left him.

_"I don't see why you're making me do this." He said, making a face as he was dragged into a muddied clearing in the middle of their camp._

_"Ah, but it should be obvious my friend!" A too chipper voice called, a slim and narrow face grinning through the markings tattooed on his face, "You may have that fancy new magic to let you pick up a sword, but you don't know to use one at all!"_

_"Zevran's right," A much too smug blonde said in agreement, the clanking of his armor making his presence obvious, "Just because you can swing one like you're Sten now and have the strength to wear armor doesn't mean you'll do well up close."_

_"I know how to use a sword," He huffed, "It's simple. You stick em with the pointy end."_

_"Aha, but as our good friend Isabella taught us, it's not always that simple, eh?" Zevran said, grin widening as a red head giggled off in the distance, "Sometimes, you try and stick em with the pointy end and surprise! It is **you** stuck with the pointy end!" He said wiggling his brows._

_Meanwhile, the one being dragged into the clearing furrowed his brow. "I thought we all agreed to never speak of that night again."_

_"What night?" Zevran said with mirth, "I'm just talking about sword fighting. Which, you need to learn."_

_"Exactly!" The armored blonde said after working through the awkwardness of Zevran's casual demeanor, "Now, between me and Zev here,"_

_"And myself," The deep, baritone monotone interrupted as a dark skinned man with startlingly white hair stepped forward, carrying a giant greatsword._

_"And Sten," Alistair corrected, "Obviously. Anywhere, between the three of us, we should be able to get you up to speed."_

_"...And I can't just throw a fireball at your faces why?"_

_"Ah, my friend, because that's just not sporting!" Zevran replied, "Now, Sten's going to attack you in three seconds. When he does, do this-"_

_"Wait, what?!" He called in a panick as Sten hefted his sword with a grunt._

_"And then you respond with this," Zevran made a vague lunging motions followed by an intricate twirl of his wrist that had his longsword flashing through the air in a complex flurry of strikes._

_"I can't do that!"_

_"But by the end of the day, you will!"_

_"Or," Sten intoned as he began to charge, "You will be a...What was the term? A cake in the pan."_

_"A pancake." Alistair supplied helpfully._

Instead of backing off further and risking tumbling over himself, or trying to block with his shield and being overrun, Jon stepped into the attack. As he did, his blade came up, stepped forward to precisely strike the flat of Robb's own blade with the tip, pushing it off course as he twirled his wrist. In his hand, his sword quickly flashed back and then slashed up at Robb's own wrist, causing the other boy to stumble and abort his attack, but Jon wasn't down throwing his hand forward and elbowing Robb aside to strike once more in the abdomen and up to the shoulder.

With another flick, Jon's blade rested beneath Robb's chin, and they both came to a complete stop.

He blinked. What? A wave of vertigo washed over him, and Jon nearly wavered as he stood there, feeling as if he was somewhere else entirely. What had just happened? And… How had he done that?

Robb looked up at him with wide eyes.

"Seven hells, Jon, what was that?!" He asked with disbelief and a grin, shaking his head as he began to chuckle. Stepping back, he grinned at Jon, "I don't think I've ever seen you do anything like that!"

"I… I don't know," Jon replied truthfully, in a bit of shock. "It just came to me."

"Hn. An odd thing to have come to you," Rodrik cut in, stomping into the yard. He looked at the both of them with a raised eyebrow, "If I didn't know any better, I'd have said that was a Bravo Riposte. Their Waterdancers are quite fond of the technique from what I remember." Then, the grizzled man shook his head and smirked, "Pretty sloppy though. You should know better than to use some half-arsed technique you read about in a book, Snow."

"U-uh, yes, Ser Rodrik," Jon said, going with the explanation even as he knew it had nothing to do with how or why he'd performed it.

Part of him wanted to tell the man he'd never even heard of the technique.

What was going on?

-

_"They say you nearly burned Rogin a crisp in practice the other day," A voice called, and he turned to see another boy, slightly older and with cut short dark hair and a pudgy face looking at him as he browsed through a few shelves of books._

_He glowered at the other boy._

_"Rogin was a prat," He told the other boy, "And said things he really shouldn't have."_

_"You'll have no complaints from me!" The other dark haired boy said with a smile, holding up his hands to show he meant no offense, "Rogin's an arse, there's no two qualms about that!" He scratched the back of his head, "It's just… Rogin has been here for years. Nearly as long as me!" The boy gave a nervous laugh, "And you only got here a couple months ago right? From the Freemarches?"_

_"...Yeah." The boy pulled his hands from the spine of a book and replied reluctantly. "From Kirkwall, though I've got family in Highever."_

_"What's it like, if you don't mind my asking?" The other boy asked, "I've always wondered what it's like outside the Tower." Then, he blinked and offered a hand with a smile, "Oh! I'm Jowan by the way!"_

_He looked at Jowan's proferred hand warily. Ever since he'd gotten here, he'd been tense. Older than most of the newly joined apprentices, he'd been the new guy. People had been curious at first, but had left him alone. Except for that loud mouth Rogin who always took every chance he had to insult and badmouth the 'Freemarcher Bastard.'_

_He really did not like Rogin._

_After a moment, he reached out and took Jowan's hand._

_"...Daylen."_

Jon shuddered as he pushed another book into its place on the shelf. He had no idea how long he'd just been standing there, staring off into nothing.

If that's what he'd been doing at all.

Looking down at his free hand, he took in the glossy title of 'Wyldflower: A Treatise on the Winter Herbs and Flora of the North.' Below the title was a carefully set depiction of a blue rose, like the kind grown in Winterfell's Glass Gardens, made of some type of blue stone inlaid into the leather binding. The book was big and hefty, and Jon knew it was a fairly straightforward and knowledge, if dry, tome on the various flowers and trees to be found in the North.

Except, for the life of him, Jon could not remember reading the book, or even grabbing it from the shelf.

It had been happening more and more as of late. Jon would zone out, caught in thought or memory of _something_ and then, when he came to, he would be standing completely still or doing something he didn't remember doing. Worse yet were the times where he zoned out and remembered everything.

Because in those instances, Jon did not feel like Jon. As if in those brief moments he became someone else entirely.

The worst part was, Jon envied that other him. The one who did not care for his circumstances, who was able to forget or act as if he never knew that he was nothing but a bastard. When he though back to those moments, the way he felt and thought then simply felt so _free._ Free of the burden of his status. Free of knowledge. Free of the bitterness and longing and envy that Jon buried deep.

"Since when were you interested in plants?" A curious voice called from behind him, and Jon turned to see the furrowed brows of his half-sister. She was dressed in one of those frilly pieces favored by southron girls, but Jon had to admit that it worked for Sansa. Her long red hair fell about her shoulders as she strolled into the library, carrying a set of books in her arms.

"Ah...Just a bit of light reading. You never know what might come in handy." He said, turning away from his sister as she began to put away some of the books.

Sansa was an awkward subject for him. Of all his siblings, she was the one he was the least close to. It hadn't always been that way, of course. While he and Robb had been fast friends from when they were but simple babes, and where Bran was younger brother always pestering the two of them for stories and training, and Arya was… Arya, Sansa had always been the sweet and innocent girl he first remembered her as. Rickon, young as he was, was the only sibling Jon interacted with less, however.

And the reason was simple.

Jon could well remember when the two of them were closer. Sansa would hang on his and Robb's every word and follow them around, but as she grew older, Lady Catelyn had taken over teaching Sansa how to be a 'Proper Lady.' After that, Sansa had become more reserved, trying to be the epitome of a Southron Lady.

Once she knew just what Jon being a Bastard meant, she'd barely interacted with him anymore. At most she'd give a courteous greeting at private family meals.

Much as Jon liked spending time with his family, he hated those meals. At least when the hall was full, there were others to take Lady Catelyn's attention -and here ire- off of him.

"That's right, you wanted to join the Watch, didn't you?" Sansa surprised him by asking, seeming a bit nervous as she asked her question.

"...I'd thought about it." Jon answered, both confused but more than happy to continue the conversation. Then again, it was later in the evening and the library was often deserted. Perhaps she just disliked the quiet?

Or, perhaps she was nervous for another reason, a voice whispered in his mind, and Jon remembered the events coming up in but a few short weeks. Ravens had come but a scant few days ago, and now Winterfell was all in a bustle to get things sorted. For the King came from the South, and it was said he planned to ask the Lord Stark to be his new Hand.

"Though I've honestly been questioning that decision." He told her, and it was true. Even as she gave him a startled look, his thoughts once more turned inwards.

"But I thought you've been wanting to take the Black for years?" Sansa asked him questioningly. Under the feel of her scrutiny, Jon couldn't help but shuffle back and forth nervously as he fiddled with the strings of an old lute decorating the library walls.

"Every time I bring it up, others try and make me reconsider or try and get me to put it off for a few years." Robb wanted him to stick around and help him rule Winterfell, but Jon knew Robb would be fine without him. Father, though. He always looked so conflicted, his eyes, a grey so dark they were almost black seeming stormy and distraught. So much different to Jon's own vibrant violet eyes, even as the rest of him looked so much like his father.

When he brought his thoughts up to father, the man always told him he didn't know what he was signing up for. That there was so much for him to do before he took the black.

Part of him was beginning to think they were right.

Those dreams had him questioning things. About himself. About who he was, and his view of the world. Sometimes he could barely remember them, and yet other times, pieces and flashes of them were so vivid he could almost feel like he was really there.

In those dreams, he wasn't Jon Snow, Bastard of Winterfell, but someone else entirely. Sometimes he was older, traversing the land. Sometimes he was older than that, the feel of weariness and old bones beginning to creak as he delved into dark tunnels enveloping him. Now and then, he was younger, cooped up in a tower and with too much energy for his own good.

For the first time in years, Jon dreamt of things outside of the Black, and that both frightened and excited him in equal measure.

"What would you do instead then?" Sansa asked, pressing him with a frown on her face, setting down one of her books on a table as he plucked at one of the lute's strings.

"I'm not sure. But… Go South, maybe. Or maybe even to Essos?" He'd heard fantastical and wonderful things of the land. There, a person's lineage might get them somewhere, but nowhere as far as their coinpurse, it was said. The more Jon thought about it, the more he began to realize that there were options outside of the Night's Watch to make a name and a living for himself.

_"See? You pluck the strings like this, yes?" A woman with a slim face and pretty features smiled with a sharp grin as she began to pluck at the strings of a lute. "First one, then two, alternating in a rhythm."_

_"Hrmm, I'm not sure I'm quite that good at it." He told her, sitting across from the woman as they sat by a fire. He sat atop a log, while he leaned against a tree, as their companions listened in or went about setting up camp. In his lap was a lute of his own, his fingers plucking the strings with a measly 'twang.'_

_She gave a tsk, clicking her teeth and shaking her head. "No, no, no!" She laughed, "You can't just grab at them and expect to make music!" She said with a giggle, "You need to caress the strings! Don't treat them like you would a sword or dagger-"_

_"Or a staff," He interjected with a smirk, and she raised an eyebrow in amusement._

_"Or a staff," She added easily, "You need to treat them like you would a lover! With a gentle touch, light as a feather that slowly builds up to a magnificent crescendo," The redhead says, Leliana demonstrating as her fingers nimbly begin to strum and pluck the strings of the lute, a gentle melody filling the clearing._

_"Must it always be innuendo and flirtations with you?" He asked with a roll of his eyes and a chuckle._

_"Ah, but mayhaps I only do it because you react so wonderfully?" She teased. "Now, again! Remember, like you would a lover! I even have the perfect song!"_

_"Oh?"_

_"Oh yes._

_**There was a stir in his blood**_

_**And the dreams lay thick upon him~"**_

_"And so he came upon the place, Where so many tread before."_ He echoed as the last bits of the song drifted through his mind, his hand working as if on their own. _"One last look upon the world, Before he crossed that final door._

_Hear the rain upon the leaves, above the sky lies grey.  
A shred of blue would be denied. Alas, he could not stay."_

His voice carried through the room as he lost himself in memories not his own. When had he taken the lute off the wall? Jon wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of a lot of things anymore. And yet the song just felt so _right_ the words flowing through him with a sense of sadness and relief.

_"Birds reel across the endless sky, above a house upon the plain.  
In memory she sings to him of a time before the rain.  
Oh sweet gods, hear our song  
For his road will be ours too.  
Before darkness claims our souls  
Let us see that shred of blue._

_Hear the rain upon the leaves, above the sky lies grey.  
A shred of blue would be denied. Alas, he could not stay."_

As his hands came to a stop, Jon blinked once more, the flames in the candles near him flickering a bit as the unbidden song came to an end.

On the other side of the room, Sansa stared at him, wide eyed.

"I didn't know you could play the lute. Or sing." She said, both awed and confused.

He couldn't, Jon wanted to tell her.

Yet somehow, he could.


	2. Vigilance

Breath. Pull. Release.

Thwack!

Breathe. Pull. Release.

Thwa-!

"So, is it true you know how to play music, Jon?" An excitable voice interrupted Jon's archery practice, the teen's shoulder's going tense as Bran suddenly spoke up, "Sansa keeps saying you can, but I've never seen you pick up a lute." His younger half sibling looked up at him with wide eyes and a cheery grin, and getting a quick bark of laughter from Robb on his other side.

"Hah! I'm pretty sure Sansa and Arya got into a spat over Arya calling her a liar!" He said with a sharp grin, giving a sly look over at Jon, "Though she has been oddly insistent about it. Don't think I've seen her take any interest in any of us the last couple years, so it's a bit surprisingly." _Especially since it's about you,_ was that Robb didn't say, his eyes doing it well enough for him.

Frowning, Jon pulled back the string of his bow and took aim once more as he awkwardly replied. "I...only know a little bit. Just a bit of practice here and there." At his feet, Ghost, the tiny pup with snow white fur, gave a small whine as his master lied. The direwolf had become Jon's just a day or two before the dreams had started, along with the pup's siblings. Once for each of the Stark children, plus the bastard.

Summer and Grey Wind, the direwolves of Bran and Robb respectively, were laying on the ground and panting at their masters' feet.

Honestly, Jon didn't feel any more comfortable lying about it to his siblings than Ghost seemed to. If Jon were in any state to really contemplate things, he'd probably find it odd that Ghost even seemed to know when jon was lying, or that the direwolf cared at all. Most likely, Jon was imagining things and simply assigning his own feelings on the matter to his new companion and pet, but it made Jon feel like he wasn't completely alone so he did what he'd been doing for the past few days.

Ignore it.

Now, if only the dreams and visions he'd been plagued with would be so kind.

Scowling, Jon took another shot and was more than a little reassured when his arrow hit the target, but was nowhere close to a bullseye. That may be an odd thing to take comfort in, but that's what it did. In fact, Jon was coming to find archery practice to be rather peaceful. The monotonous, often tedious act of drawing back the bow with a knocked arrow, patiently taking aim and trying to get better.

Mainly, the appeal was in the fact that there was no sudden sense of vertigo, no feeling like he was momentarily in another place entirely, or that he was some_one_ else entirely. Nor did he suddenly gain some prodigious skill with the bow, his shots always as decent but far from masterful as always. Normally that annoyed him, especially when Theon would take to rubbing in his superior skill with the bow, but now?

Now Jon was rather fine with only being average with the weapon.

"Really? What kind of songs do you know? Oh, oh! Do you know any about The Dragonknight?!" Bran asked, barely paying attention as he practiced with his own bow.

"Ah… Only a couple, and no." Jon said, trying to keep how uncomfortable he felt off his face. "Just a couple old things I found in a book. Don't even remember which one." He said, having come up with the lie after Sansa had questioned him a couple nights ago. The first part was true, though. Jon really did only know a couple different songs, and none he recognized.

Still, he somehow knew them by heart. It really was rather frustrating, and more than a little concerning.

His knowledge when it came to music was… Fragmentary. Disjointed and out of context. For the few songs he did know, it was more like he had the motions memorized by rote rather than actually understanding _how_ they were played. Granted, Jon acknowledge that with a little bit of work, he could probably take apart what he did know to figure out the rest and he may very well have to.

Sansa had been unusually fervent in trying to get him to play again. Thus far he'd managed to wave her off, but at some point he'd probably have to give in. By now it was pretty common knowledge among Winterfell that he could play, so his refusals to do so would be seen as odd. Maybe something like Flowers of Spring or The Maiden of the Tree. Those seemed like they'd be to his half sister's liking.

Much better than something like The Ballad of Red Jenny or the Knight of Silver Tears. Jon wasn't even sure how we'd make the second one make any kind of sense. It's not like he knew who the Dalish were, and he was pretty sure there was no such thing as elves. Despite whatever those occasional glimpses of his dreams seemed to depict.

"Aww…" Bran groaned in disappointment at Jon's answer, all the while Robb chuckled.

"First that fancy trick in the practice yard last week, now music?" He raised a brow at his sullen half brother, "You've been holding out on me! When did you learn any of that?" Robb asked curiously, before his grin fell and he shook his head. The look he gave Jon then was inscrutable.

"...Sansa also said you were reconsidering taking the Black. That true too?"

Going still at Robb's question, Jon held his bow after having finished yet another shot. Of course Sansa would spread that around too.

"Yeah." Jon replied after a moment, face carefully blank as he began to line up another shot. He didn't know how he felt about that spreading. When he'd told Sansa that, he hadn't been lying, but he also hadn't been entirely thinking then. The dreams, visions, whatever they were, they were messing with his head. Even when they weren't plaguing him, they had him off balance.

Giving a stiff nod, Robb exhaled and grunted. "Good," he said gruffly, drawing his bow, "You know I've never liked the thought of you going off to the Wall."

"It's my decision to make, one way or the other." Jon returned a bit tersely. This was an old argument between the two of them, one that had started from the moment Jon hadn't gotten the idea in his head to join the Night's Watch like Uncle Benjen.

Robb wanted him to stick around. To help him manage and rule Winterfell, the Brandon Snow to Robb's Torrhen Stark. And while Robb would still support him joining the watch, he'd always made his own preference clear.

Touching as it was, Jon had never felt comfortable with the idea.

"After everything with the King is done," Jon said as he loosed another arrow, "I'm going to head South." He announced, causing both of his half siblings to stop what they were doing and look at him.

"What?" Robb asked flatly.

"Really?" Bran looked to him with excitement and curiosity.

Letting out a breathe, Jon lowered his bow and nodded, "I'm… Thinking about travelling for a bit." He told them, "I plan to go and see Oldtown, first, then maybe head towards Essos." Part of Jon was even tentatively excited for it all. It was the kind of thing he'd never really even let himself dream of, he could admit. For the longest time, he'd let himself be absorbed in the fact he was a Bastard, he'd never even really considered just how large the world was.

Any time he'd even come close to thinking of something like that, he'd always been resigned to the fact that his status as a bastard would follow him anywhere. That thought had preoccupied all else.

With the dreams, however, he couldn't afford to let that stop him. Oldtown was the home of the Maesters and the foremost collection of knowledge in the world. Jon knew one thing about his dreams, and that was the fact they were _not_ normal.

At this point he could admit it, if only to himself. He was dreaming of someone else's life, one that took place in what seemed to be a world different to the one he knew. One of magic, and demons and of war and death. Some of those elements were familiar to him, but others? Others he would find no answer for here.

So, Oldtown would be his first stop. Jon was done hiding from the dreams. For days now he had been ignoring them, trying to go on and live as if they did not happen, but that had done nothing for him. No, if he could not ignore them, then he would confront them. There was no use hiding his head in the sand.

"I have questions I want answered," Jon continued with a shake of his head, "And if I can't find them in Oldtown, then I will simply have to find them elsewhere." His lips quirked upwards in a bit of dry humor, "Besides. I'll be getting to see the world. Meet new people. Maybe impress some of your Southron cousins."

"From what Mother's said of everything South of the Neck, I'm sure you would," Robb's lips couldn't help but twitch as well, "Who knows, maybe you'll become the new talk of all those Reach tourneys!" He said with faux enthusiasm.

"If you do, you'll tell us all about it, right?" Bran asked him eagerly, "And about your travels, too?"

"Of course." Jon smiled at his younger brother. "But it won't be for awhile yet. As I said, I don't plan to leave until after the King departs."

"Why's he coming all the way up here, anyway?" Bran asks the two of them, before flushing and turning his attention away, "Uh, not that I'm not excited! I mean, he has to be bringing his Kingsguard with him, right? Do you think we'll get to meet Barristan?" Bran added on, blabbering with renewed enthusiasm and getting chuckles from his elder brothers.

Their younger brother's fascination with knights and tales of glory and valor were well known to the two. Though, it's not as if they hadn't been similar when they were his age.

"Not sure," Robb shrugged with a lackadaisical air, before frowning, "Though they say Jon Arryn is dead."

"Father fostered with the King under him," Jon speculated, "Could be the King just wants to reminisce and commiserate with Father over old times." He'd heard tell that the king was rather absorbed with past glories. To hear their father tell it, Robert Baratheon had been a formidable warrior back in his day, and they'd fought many battles together. Between the King's skill at arms and battle fervor and father's more cautious nature to reign him in, the two had mounted several victories in the Rebellion.

The thought of his father like that was always odd. Barely older than him or Robb, riding into battle and leading his men to war. He'd helped to overthrow and depose a king, the only reason his father hadn't taken The Mad King's head being Lord Lannister's last minute switch of allegiance. By the time Eddard Stark had rode into King's Landing, it had been sacked by Tywin Lannisters own men.

"I'm not sure," Robb said, looking troubled as he sat down his bow, rubbing his chin with worry, "Jon Arryn didn't just foster the two. He was the King's Hand. I…" He paused for a moment, before frowning, "I overheard mother and father talking. They think he comes to ask father to be his new Hand."

"Oh! Do you think he's accept?"

"...I don't know." Robb said, answering Bran's question as Jon shared a look with them.

Unsaid between them, was that nothing good ever came when a Stark rode south of the Neck.

Jon was once more in the library, pouring over a dusty old tome about First men and the Greenseers, when he heard a commotion in the hall.

"Ahh!" A feminine voice let out a sharp hiss of pain, as feet stomped along the stone halls of Winterfell. It was followed by a curse, and the sound of quick shuffling.

"Sansa! I thought I told you to keep off that leg!" Robb's voice drifted through the halls, and Jon was up and heading towards the door before he was even finished speaking. Clapping the book closed, he stalked out with a worried look, arriving just in time to see Sansa flinch at Robb's rebuke.

The Heir of Winterfell had one arm slung around Sansa's waist, the other reaching over to help prop her up as she leaned into him. Her dress was torn a little around the knee, one side dark with blood and the entire area covered with a bit of dirt. Sansa's eyes were scrunched up in pain, and she was quite clearly trying to keep off one of her legs.

Before he knew it, Jon was rushing forward with worry written clearly on his face.

"What happened?" He asked Robb, sweeping in to help prop Sansa up on the other side.

"She tripped."

"I fell."

Robb and Sansa spoke at once, one with barely hidden worry and the other with a small wince of pain. As Sansa spoke, Robb frowned eyes, and continued, "Her and Arya were having another spat and the pups got underfoot. She tripped over Lady, but the pup's unharmed. Sansa not so much." He glanced down at her knee.

"Lady had nothing to do with it!" Sansa protested, face red "It was all Arya's fault! Just because she doesn't care about her dreadful appearance doesn't mean she has to get mud all over my dresses!"

Her brother's shared a roll of the eyes, even as they kept a tight grip on her to make sure she did not fall. Both knew well how their sisters did not have the best rapport, and this wasn't even the first argument this week. Barely a day went by without the two arguing about something.

"Right, we need to get her off that leg. Quickly, in the library," Jon spoke pulling them to the room full of books and shelves and dusty decorations.

"I was bringing her to Maester Luwin," Robb said as they helped her into the chair Jon had just been sitting in moments prior, "But you're right, she shouldn't be walking. One of us will have to go get him."

"First, let me see the wound," Jon said, barely paying his siblings any mind as he reached to his side, and into a pack he had started wearing recently. As he did, his siblings frowned and shared a glance, even as Sansa shuffled a bit, her leg propped out and the scrape visible through the torn holes in her dress.

Pulling out several glass vials, Jon glanced at it and nodded. "Seems tender, but a minor scrape. There'll probably be some bruising for a few days as it heals." He told her, missing the complicated expression she made as he uncorked one of the vials and dabbing two of his fingers into it. A moment later, he reached out and began to spread a paste over the wound.

"Ahh!" Sansa hissed, flinching forward, while Robb quickly quickly grabbed hold of her to keep her still, looking at his brother quizzically.

"This should make sure infection doesn't take hold," He explained, dabbing a couple more brushes of the ointment on her wound, "It'll sting for a moment, but then should help with the pain." Corking the vial, he put it bag in his bag and pulled out a roll of bandages.

Shifting a bit awkwardly, he said, "I'm going to need to bandage your leg. It'll be a moment," He told her, as he moved the leg of her dress carefully aside so he could begin bandaging it. "The maester will still need to take a look, and the wound will need to be cleaned, but that should help for now."

"Nghn...A-ah? O-oh…. It… it's actually starting to feel a bit better." Sansa said with wonder as he pulled her dress back into place.

Robb gave him an unreadable look.

"When did you learn medicine?" He asked, and Jon turned away as he stood.

"Ah… Just something I picked up. I've been reading more, you know." He replied, trying stop the conversation then and there.

Lips turning down into a frown, Robb didn't look too happy with that answer. "This isn't the sort of thing you just pick up, Jon! I'd like to think I'd know my own brother was learning to heal people or how to play music!" He pressed heatedly, and to the side, Sansa shrunk.

"Ah… How did you learn music, anyway?" She asked, shuffling nervously, "You said you'd been practicing for awhile but no one's ever seen you doing it, and I've never heard any music in the keep before."

"I practiced in the woods." Jon answered quickly, feeling a bit contrite. Had Sansa really asked around that much about it?

"When?" Robb asked with narrow eyes, and Jon took a step back, "We almost never go into the Godswood alone, let alone the Wolfswood, Jon! So when did you go out to practice? Hells, when did you even make all of that?" He gestured angrily toward Jon's pouch.

Frowning, Jon glared back at his brother. "Well, we're not always together are we?" He said with a measure of scorn, "Just because I'm not glued to your hip, I must be up to something? The moment the bastard is out of sight he must be doing something unsavory?!"

"You know I've never thought of you like that!" Robb shouted back, and Sansa flinched.

"Well what do you want me to say? That I learned it in a dream?" Jon asked with a roll of his eyes, knowing how that would go.

"The truth would be a good start!" Robb rebuked and jon nearly snarled, the last thread of his patience finally snapping.

"THAT IS THE TRUTH!" He roared back at his brother, his voice beating back his brother and making him flinch as Jon finally gave. Face red and fists clenched, he threw his arm to the side as he went on, "That's the truth, Robb! I learned it all in dreams and visions, and I'm half convinced I'm going mad!" He told him, oblivious to how the candlesticks around him, once unlit in the noonday light, began to smolder and burn.

"Believe me or not, that's what's going on! And it's been tearing me apart because half the time I don't even know who I am anymore!" Jon yelled, throwing his hands to the side as his siblings looked on with wide eyes.

"Dreams?" Robb asked with disbelief and concern written on his face, "What are you talking about, Jon? You sound mad right now!"

"Maybe I am!" He shouted.

"Then why not say something?!" Robb bit back, stepping forward with his teeth bared, "You're my brother, Jon! I won't even pretend to know what you're going on about, but maybe I would if you would've told me!"

"Tell you what?" Jon replied, voice dripping with sarcasm, "That sometimes I lose time? That I dream of another life?! Of not being me? _Of Not being a Bastard?!_" He yelled, "Who would believe any of that? Who would I dream of beasts and magic and know them like I know the back of my own hand! That I learned to tune a lute in dreams, or that I know enough about medicine to make a Maester jealous!" He continued angrily, everything spilling out as the walls broke down. Everything he had been holding in these past few weeks, everything he had been trying to ignore.

"Do you know what it's been like?" He pressed on, "Sometimes I forget my own damn name, Robb! There are moments where I feel like I'm somewhere else entirely, and that I'm not even _me_ anymore!" As he yelled, a couple of the candles flickered to life.

"But...But you _do_ know how to play." Sansa interrupted, having leaned back away as the two began to raise their voices. Nearly shrinking into herself as the two turned to her, she said, "A-and now you know medicine. So there has to be something to them, right?" She said quietly, as her brother's said nothing, both of them just huffing, their face's red with anger and frustration.

Slowly, they began to calm down, and Jon steadfastly looked away from his siblings.

"...You _should have told me_, Jon." Robb said with exhaustion, the short argument already having him look haggard and unkempt, his voice lined with distress. "I'm your brother! Even if I didn't believe you, I'd still stand by you, just as you would do the same!"

Slumping down into another chair, Jon let out a long breath. "What would I say, Robb?" He said, sounding just as tired, if not more so, "And even knowing you'd stand by me, what could you do? I've been trying to deal with it for weeks."

"Then stop trying to deal with it alone." Robb reached up and rubbed at his face, letting out a sigh of his own.

For several long moments, they all just stood and sat there, two too tired to say much more and the last looking between the others awkwardly. Finally, Sansa, shuffling in her seat and sitting up, turned to Jon, to ask, "So… What do you dream about?"

Swiping his dark hair out of the way of his eyes, Jon gave a lacklustre shrug. "A lot of things. Sometimes they're simple, like sitting down in front of a book and reading to pass the time. Others, they more complicated." Face going through a complicated series of expressions, he said, "More… mad."

"Mad how?" Robb asked, voice quiet, and his brother simply gave another shrug.

"It's…" He struggled with the words, "It's hard to explain. But sometimes it feels as if they take place in a completely different world," He shook his head and leaned forward as he rustled his hair. "In my dreams, I'm not… not _me._ I'm someone else. Some living a completely different life in a different place. And that's the simple part.

Jon rubbed at his temples. "Then there's the magic." He told them, shoulders sagging with resignation. After all, he'd told them this much. May as well tell them everything.

Sansa, despite her wary expression, perked up a bit. "Magic?"

With a nod, he continued, "Yeah. But it's nothing like the stories." He frowned, brow furrowing as he began to explain the things he had internalized from his dreams, but had never really put into order. "I guess some of it is, but in others it's just too… Structured. There, in my dreams, magic comes from this…" He struggled to find the right words, "Spiritual realm, or something. I'm not entirely sure. They call it The Fade, and it's where people go when they sleep and dream."

"And you just happen to be dreaming about it?" Robb asked with a quirked brow, and a disbelieving expression.

In response, Jon shook his head. "It's not the same," He told them, "I find it just as mad as you two probably do. I've never heard of such a place, not even in any of tales and stories Old Nan used to tell us."

"Then, if you learned how to play music in your dreams, does that mean you can do magic too?" Sansa asked, curiously, "Is that why some of the candles just lit by themselves?" She said, and both Robb and Jon blinked, and turned towards the candles. And indeed, just as Sansa said, several of them were lit, while the others smoldered.

Jon was stunned. "I… That's…. That's never happened before." He said, looking at the candles with wide eyes.

"But, no one touched those candles!" Robb said with a frown, staring at the candles intently, "And they definitely weren't lit when we came in here!"

"It happened while the two of you were arguing," Sansa said with a frown of her own, "I thought It was just a trick of my mind at first, but it can't be."

Going over everything he knew from his dreams, Jon felt a pit form in his stomach. "I-it's technically, possible," He said, still unable to draw his gaze away, "In my dreams, magic responds to understanding and perception, and emotions can make it stronger." He explained, "And fire always responds to things like anger or frustration. But if I'd really lost control, it definitely should have done more than light a couple candles."

Like scorch the entire room. Though it would explain why Jon felt so tired, even outside of having just had a very emotional argument. Magic took energy and willpower, and Jon certainly felt drained of both.

"That can't really be magic," Robb said, eyes wide as he turned to focus once more on his brother. "Magics gone from the world." Maybe a few centuries ago, this could be plausible, but now? Magic was gone from the world.

"Maybe it's coming back?" Sansa posited, seeming curious. "There are always some who keep to the old traditions and proclaim being able to see the future and such."

"But it doesn't even line up with any of the tales!" Robb insisted, "Magic is a sword without hilt! Jon's right, it definitely doesn't sound like any magic I've ever heard of!"

"Then how could they use magic at all?" Sansa pushed with a frown, "How did anyone?" She looked towards Jon, but he had no answers.

"I don't know." He told them, "Like I said, most magic in my dreams makes use of The Fade."

"Most?"

He frowned. "I… That's all I've seen. Right?" He muttered to himself, thinking on it, "Mages make use of their connection of The Fade to affect the world around them. So doesn't all magic come from The Fade?" He blinked, feeling a bit dizzy, "But, no… What? But that doesn't make sense? There has to be…"

Blinking a couple more time, Jon lurched forward and gave a groan as he clutched his head.

"Nnngh!"

_"I don't like this one bit." Alistair said with a frown, nervously tapping his fingers against the hilt of his sword as he sat across from his friend around the fire._

_A scoff, as their other companion turned their head. "Pah! Such predictable words, from the detestable fool." She said imperiously, golden eyes narrowed in distaste, "And such hypocrisy!" She crooned, her eyes glimmering against the firelight, her black hair seeming to shimmer in the night, "Was it not your order's policy to bring anything and everything to bare, to fight the Blight?"_

_The third figure sighed, glancing around the camp. At the moment, it was just the three, the rest having gone to bed for the night. "Morrigan," He said with exhaustion, "Stop provoking Alistair."_

_"I will," The woman said, crossing her arms beneath her rather ample and more than visible bust, "When the fool stops being a blithering imbecile."_

_"Hey!" The blonde protested in affront, "I am not a blithering idiot! At most I'm an insipid dullard."_

_"Ah, at least the monkey knows his place," Morrigan said with a roll of her eyes._

_Daylen groaned. "If I didn't know the two of you couldn't stand one another, I'd tell the two of you to just fuck and get it over with already," He said tiredly, prompting expressions of disgust and further affron from the both of them as they rushed to dissuade him, "So instead I'll just tell the two of you to knock it off! This is important."_

_"Hmph," Morrigan sniffed, turning her head up and away, "Have it your way, oh courageous leader." She said mockingly, leaning back and arching in a way that had Daylen cursing her for he __**knew**__ she did this on purpose and he hated the fact his eyes couldn't help but wander. And of course, there was that damnable knowing smirk._

_He swore, she was just as bad as Leliana or Zevran sometimes._

_Alistair glowered at Morrigan for another moment, before sighing and turning back to Daylen. "Look, I'm just worried. After all we saw in Redcliffe, is this really the sort of thing you want to be playing around with?"_

_"This sort of thing is the only reason we even got out of Redcliffe," Daylen shot back with a frown, "And to be quite honest? I just don't trust Avernus as far as I can throw him, and I don't need to tell you that's not far."_

_"That's fair enough and all well and good," Alistair said, shaking head head he brought a hand up to ruffle his hair, "But I don't see why that means you need to dabble in Blood Magic!"_

_"Must everything be explained to you?" Morrigan interrupted with a frown, "How else would one make sure he is not up to something or slipping something by, if one does not understand his work? It is not as if we can be there at all times looking over his shoulder." She said scornfully._

_"Crass as Morrigan is," Daylen spoke up before yet another argument could get going, "She's not wrong. We're letting him live because -distasteful as it all is- his research works. And that's big. If you haven't looked around lately, we're a bit undermanned and the odds are against us. We need every advantage we can get."_

_"I'm still not happy about that either, but I can't deny your points," Alistair allowed, "I'm just wary. Even if it's you, most mages who use Blood Magic just can't help themselves."_

_"Then it's a good thing we have you on hand to put me down if it goes that way, isn't it?"  
Daylen said bluntly, causing his friend to flinch, "But either way, it's too late. I already know the basics."_

_"What?!"_

_Frowning even further, Daylen stared into the fire. "Jowan showed me."_

"Ngh!" Falling to the ground, Jon could barely hear the cries of his siblings as they rushed to his side. No, he was more preoccupied with trying not to cry out as pain erupted in his head, the flame of the candle nearby beginning to flicker wildly.

"Grah!" As the flame flashed and erupted to twice its size, Jon lost himself once more.

_A woman stood before him, but in truth, she was no woman at all._

_Her eyes were the light of the moon, pouring through the canopy of leaves and branches hanging high above their heads. Her hair the deep and earthen soil of the forest floor, leaves and twigs arrayed beautifully within. And her skin was the leaves and the grass the thin stalks of the blooming flowers. Bark and root were her fangs and her claws, but they went unbared as she stood there exposed to the elements in the ruins of this old keep._

_Behind her stalked two dangerous, slavering beasts. Fur dark and mottled, drool dripped from their maws, legs bent and angled as they stood on two legs. Claws as sharp as knives flexed as the bore into him, their forms like that of a man mixed the sigil of his family's house._ -His family's house? But The Amell Sigil was of two hawks, facing one another-_ Their gazes held naught but fury and hatred._

_"You… What are you?" He asked, looking at the woman who was not a woman, "You are no demon, of that I'm certain, but you feel like no Spirit I have ever met."_

_"I would not," She spoke with the wind, "For I am no Spirit. I am dirt and the soil, nourishing the life of the land. The trees and the leaves, keeping the rain from washing away my children. The wind and the moon and the sun." Eyes like no other stared at him, into him, _-He clutched at his chest in pain, the stone beneath him thrumming against his skin, "Quick, get him onto the table!"-_ and couldn't help but tense._

_"I am The Lady of the Forest." The Forest spoke to him._


End file.
